


there's nothing here but fear and death

by brinnanza



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Crisis of Faith, Gen, Hurt/No Comfort, Missing Scene, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, RQG 55: In Seine in the Membrane, episode-related, this is basically zolf angst: the fic, well more like hurt/attempted comfort that is aggressively shrugged off
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:22:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22339990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brinnanza/pseuds/brinnanza
Summary: Paris - the whole world, probably - is broken, and it is Zolf’s fault. People are going to die, and it is Zolf’s fault, and there is absolutely nothing he can do about any of it. He knows this with a bone-deep certainty, the way he knows Feryn is dead, the way he knows Poseidon is a stubborn bastard, the way he knows life takes and takes and takes until you have nothing left to give.
Relationships: Hamid Saleh Haroun al-Tahan & Zolf Smith, Poseidon & Zolf Smith
Comments: 3
Kudos: 41





	there's nothing here but fear and death

**Author's Note:**

> what's up gaydies and theys it's time for "if I have to have panic attacks, so do fictional characters I love". contains uhhh maybe a very minor, vaguely alluded to bit of suicidal ideation, but it's not explicit.
> 
> I love zolf a lot but he's a big dummy. sometimes things aren't the worst possible option.
> 
> title is from the mechs "blood and whiskey"

The door slams shut behind Zolf, and he can’t breathe, can’t do anything but fist his hands in his trousers and shake apart. He hasn’t had a panic attack in years, had thought this particular problem long dealt with, but his heart pounds rabbit-fast, white noise rushing in his ears. It sounds like the sea, almost, like rolling waves crashing onto the shore. That had been comforting once, but right now, it’s just noise.

Paris - the whole world, probably - is broken, and it is Zolf’s fault. People are going to die, and it is Zolf’s fault, and there is absolutely nothing he can do about any of it. He knows this with a bone-deep certainty, the way he knows Feryn is dead, the way he knows Poseidon is a stubborn bastard, the way he knows life takes and takes and takes until you have nothing left to give.

He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to take a deep breath. His lungs won’t let him, won’t let him have anything more than tiny, too-fast sips of air that leave him lightheaded, ragged breaths that stack on top of each other until his chest is too full.

Zolf hadn’t wanted any of this. He’d never harbored any naive daydreams of heroism the way Hamid had. All he’d ever wanted was the sky, some way out of the mines, to escape a life lived underground. He hadn’t even managed that, had still wound up buried in rubble underground, like the cave-in that killed Feryn had just taken a few decades to catch up with Zolf.

He hadn’t died then either, but there is a desperate, exhausted part of him that thinks, _I should have done_. He keeps surviving, keeps outliving people, and for what? To tip the whole world into chaos, to destroy something that was only ever trying to help?

How stupid, how _arrogant_ they’d been. People like Barret will always have something to kill for, will always build their empires atop a pile of bodies. Zolf can’t stop that anymore than he can hold back the tides. It is all so much bigger than he can see at once, than any of them can, but that computer had managed to hold it all at once, had seen the whole picture. And they’d just… destroyed it.

It wasn’t their decision to make. Not for the whole world.

_Is this what you saved me for?_ Zolf thinks toward Poseidon. It’s not a prayer, not really, but he knows Poseidon can hear him, knows just as well Poseidon won’t respond. He never does, not in any way that means anything. All this power at Zolf’s fingertips, a well of divine energy sparking within him, and he can’t even get down the damn _stairs_ , can’t do anything that’s of any use or worth to anyone. _If I can’t even do what I’m charged with_ , Zolf thinks at Poseidon, _then what is the point of my life?_

Zolf leans down, presses his forehead against his knees as hot tears prick at the corners of his eyes. His shoulders tremble, and he shoves a palm against his mouth to stifle the sob that catches in his throat.

_What is the point of_ you _?_

\--

Zolf isn’t afraid of drowning. He’s even less afraid of drowning in some fucked up power play of a lucid dream. He’s well aware he’s no match for Poseidon when it comes down to it, that he’s just a dwarf, and a broken one at that, but he doesn’t take kindly to threats, no matter who they’re from. Terror rises sharp and hot in Zolf’s stomach, but he won’t be intimidated, not by _symbolism_. 

He gets the message, loud and clear. Poseidon isn’t a subtle god; Zolf knows what he’s meant to do with his own trident and an outstretched hand, knows he’s supposed to give himself over, to have _faith_. Except faith is exactly what had gotten Zolf into this mess in the first place - faith in Poseidon when his ship had gone down, faith in his own judgement when they’d destroyed Mr Ceiling and Paris and the whole world. Faith has never gotten Zolf anything but trouble.

Poseidon’s not the only one who can deliver a message. Zolf maintains eye contact as he lets he sea swallow him, curses heavy on his tongue.

When he wakes, he’s already trembling with rage. He takes it out on the nearest object, hurling the glass water pitcher into the window and watches it shatter. There is something inside of him that shatters along with it, something formless but integral.

The noise draws Hamid, because of course it does. Because Zolf can’t even do _this_ right. Because no matter how many times he’d told himself this was a _job_ , that no one was supposed to _care_ , he knows it never was. That they always did.

Hamid looks a right mess, clothes rumpled, eyeliner streaked down his cheeks. He hasn’t bothered to prestidigitate himself clean, which Zolf would probably find concerning if he had any room left inside himself to care. Zolf’s not inclined to be generous at the moment; all he really wants is to be left alone.

Divine energy hums just under the surface of Zolf’s skin, and he realizes he can’t remember the last time he was truly _alone_.

He pulls the sheet over his head, tries to let the rushing in his ears drown out Hamid’s clumsy attempts at comfort. It doesn’t work - even the lower end of Hamid’s register cuts through the static - but Zolf can be patient when the occasion calls for it, so he just waits for Hamid to be done.

The problem, Zolf thinks, is that Hamid believes if he can just find the right words, flash a charming enough smile, if he just _tries_ really hard, he can fix anything. And Zolf knows, probably more than most, that some things can’t be fixed. Some things are broken, and they stay broken, and no amount of naive hope can put them right.

Eventually, Hamid lets out a sigh. “Okay,” he says, and there is a tiny, unkind part of Zolf that’s perversely pleased by the defeat in Hamid’s voice, like he’s won some unspoken argument. “Okay, just - I’m here if you want to talk.”

“Noted,” Zolf snaps from beneath the covers. “Great chat. _Goodbye_ , Hamid.”

Hamid heaves another heavy sigh, and then Zolf hears his retreating footsteps, followed by the sharp click of the closing door.

When Zolf is alone again, or as near to it as he gets these days, he flings the sheet away from his face and huffs out a breath, feeling quite entitled to a little petulant sulking. His fingers are itching for something else to throw, something perfect his can shatter across the far wall. He settles for fisting his hands in the bedsheet until his knuckles go white. The sound of something breaking will only bring Hamid back for another round of well-meaning but unwanted pity.

It doesn’t matter anyway. Everything of consequence is already broken, cracks spiraling out from beneath L'Arc de L'Ordinateur. 

Zolf had seen to that.

\--

There’s another dream. It’s just as full of cryptic symbolism. The only words are Zolf’s pleas for clarity that will never come. And Zolf is just… tired. He knows he is asleep, but a bone-deep exhaustion weighs down on him, settling within him like it has always lived there. Perhaps it always has.

So Zolf says yes. He knows it’s a mistake as soon as he does it, as soon as his hand touches Poseidon’s and resolves into blinding agony that’s gone almost as abruptly as it started. His throat burns like he’s been screaming, and he doesn’t know what he’d agreed to, what it means, only that he doesn’t have it in him anymore for nightly staring contests with a callous god.

The whole room is drenched, water flowing from the open tap and onto the bed to form a briny calf, the turn of an ankle. Hamid’s hugging him, arms thrown around Zolf like he can even hope to keep Zolf moored, prevent him from drifting out to some wine-dark, storm-tossed sea. Zolf doesn’t want his pity, wants his genuine concern even less, but he just lets Hamid hold him because he’s not sure he can endure more of Hamid’s soggy comfort without saying something he’ll regret.

Zolf is not afraid of drowning, but he knows what it feels like, and it feels like this, like a choking rush of ice water down his throat, like a great millstone whose weight won’t cease, like a hundred thousand questions that all boil down to _why._ The whole room is drowning to form legs Zolf didn’t ask for, doesn’t want, doesn’t _deserve_ , and Zolf is drowning with it.

Eventually, the water stops. The tap goes dry, but the damage is more than done, puddles soaking into the plush carpet and probably dripping into the room below. The salt tang of sea air lingers, oppressive; the scent used to remind Zolf of freedom once, but now it just makes him ill. Hamid is still clinging to him, water seeping into his own clothes from the contact, but if he minds the damp, he doesn’t say, just presses his forehead against Zolf’s shoulder.

Zolf fights the urge to stare down at shapes that have formed below his knees and stares into the middle distance instead. He can’t feel them, not the way he could his real leg, and where water meets the ragged stumps is only vaguely cool and devoid of texture, like passing through a shadow on a warm day. Awareness lingers in the back of Zolf’s mind, stubbornly refusing to sink below the surface again, and he knows, somehow, that he has some imitation of control over them, that they will bear his weight.

He supposes he’s meant to be grateful. Zolf knows better though, knows gods don’t grant boons for free, not without wanting something in return. Whatever Poseidon wants - glory, sacrifice, devotion - Zolf is pretty sure he has nothing left within him to give. The only alternative is that this is some kind of _reward_ , something Zolf has _earned_ for breaking the world, and that is worse by far because it means -- It means --

If this is what Poseidon thinks is fair, then Zolf wants _nothing_ to do with it.

“Hamid,” he says, voice coming out too high and too tight. “Hamid, let go.”

Hamid pulls away immediately, but only enough to raise his head to look at Zolf. “What is it, Zolf; what do you need?”

Zolf wishes he knew. “Just - Give me - Could you just -” He blows out a breath and leans away from the circle of Hamid’s arms. Everything is soaked - the bedding, the floor, Zolf’s hair and beard - and he’s lived on the sea, knows how it feels to think you’ll never be dry again, but his skin burns everywhere the water touches in a way it never has before. “I need some space, just - please -”

Hamid backs off until they’re no longer touching. “Oh! Do you need - Is there something I can do?” He casts a frantic glance between Zolf and the state of the room. “I could help you dry some things out if you -”

“No,” Zolf says, and there is something caught in his throat. “No, just - just go, please, I -”

Hamid’s brows draw together in concern and opens his mouth to speak, but Zolf can’t stand his pity, not now. He waves Hamid off, and Hamid skitters away from him like a frightened deer, torn between honoring Zolf’s request and his own soft-hearted desire to help. “Okay, okay, but - I’m here, Zolf, if you want to talk or just -”

“Great, good, thanks, can you _please_ -”

“Okay,” Hamid says again, and then he’s gone, door closing gently behind him.

There’s soft, keening noise like a wounded animal, and Zolf realizes belatedly that it’s coming from him, some primal sound tearing its way out of his throat. “Is this what you wanted?” he growls at Poseidon. “Is this _fair_?” It’s an effort not to shout because that will only bring Hamid back, but gods, he wants to scream, to demand some explanation. He doesn’t expect answers, not anymore, not from a god that chooses to reward _this_.

“Take them back,” Zolf demands. He can barely get the words out around the lump in his throat. “Take them _back!_ I don’t want this, I don’t want any of this! I don’t - I don’t want -” _You_ , Zolf thinks but does not say.

And it’s true, he realizes. Whatever deal he’d made with Poseidon, not just in the dream, but all those years ago when he hadn’t had a choice - Zolf can’t do it anymore. 

His hands are trembling. Zolf fists them in the damp sheets to still them, but it just makes his shoulders shake instead. He can’t _breathe_ ; the water’s no longer flowing, but Zolf is still drowning, and no matter how hard he kicks, he can’t break the surface. He can’t do anything but shake, ride out the storm and hope there will be enough to salvage afterwards.

Once again, Zolf throws himself into the sea, only he’s not sure he wants anyone to save him.


End file.
